“We’re flying to the crater so I can remove some rock samples,” Dwyer said, “to take to a lab for testing.”
“That’s all?” the pilot said, visibly relaxing.
“Yep,” Dwyer answered.
“Sweet,” the pilot said, “because you can’t believe some of the assignments I’ve had lately. I almost hate to come to work some days.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I’ve ended my shift in a chemical detox shower more than once,” the pilot said, “not my idea of a good day at the office.”
“This should be a piece of cake,” Dwyer assured him.
The revelation loosened the pilot’s jaw and he gave Dwyer a nonstop travelogue of the sights they were passing for the remainder of the flight. Twenty minutes later he pointed forward through the windshield. “There she is.”
The meteor crater was a massive pockmark on the dusty terrain. Upon seeing the sight from the air, it was not difficult to imagine the force that would have been required to make such a deep penetration of the earth’s crust. It was like a giant had taken a huge ball-peen hammer and whacked the earth. The dust clouds after the impact must have been visible for months afterward. The edge of the crater, a pie-crust-like circle, loomed ahead.
“Which side, sir?” the pilot asked.
Dwyer scanned the ground. “There,” he said, “near that white pickup.”
The pilot slowed the Sikorsky, then hovered and sat her down smoothly.
“I was ordered to remain aboard,” the pilot said, “and monitor the radio traffic.”
After the pilot had gone through his shutdown procedure and the rotor blade had stopped, Dwyer climbed out and walked over to a man in a cowboy hat and boots standing off to the side. The man extended his hand, and Dwyer shook it firmly.
“Thanks for agreeing to help,” Dwyer said.
“Shoot,” the man said, “you don’t turn down a request from the President of the United States. I’m glad to be able to help.”
The man walked back to his pickup, reached into the bed and removed a few hand tools and a bucket, then handed Dwyer a shovel. Then he pointed over to the rim.
“I think what you’re looking for is right over there.”
Climbing over the ridge of spoil that rimmed the crater, the two men headed down the side twenty yards. The temperature grew hotter as they descended.
The man in the cowboy hat stopped. “This is the far edge of the crater,” he noted, wiping his brow with a bandana. “It’s always yielded the biggest chunks for me.”
Dwyer glanced around, located a likely spot, and began digging with the shovel.
AT THE SAME time that Dwyer started digging in Arizona, on the Oregon, in the sea off of Iceland, it was decidedly colder. Belowdecks in his office, Michael Halpert was staring at a printout from his computer. Halpert had been hard at work for hours, and his eyes were burning from staring at the computer screen. Punching commands into the keyboard, Halpert brought up the mission file and stared at Cabrillo’s notes again.
Glancing at the printout again, he gathered his notes and walked to the control room.
“Richard,” Hanley was saying as Halpert walked into the room, “have the Gulfstream fueled and ready. I’ll call you as soon as we need you.”
Hanging up the phone, Hanley turned to Halpert. “I take it you found something?”
Halpert handed Hanley the document and he read it quickly. “It might be significant,” Hanley said slowly, “and it might not. That is a large sum that Hickman donated to the university, but he might have a habit of bequests like that.”
“I checked,” Halpert said, “he does. And they are all archaeologically based.”
“Interesting,” Hanley said.
“Plus what the archaeologist said when he was dying,” Halpert added, “he bought and paid for the university.”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Hanley said, “plus, I thought it odd that Ackerman e-mailed Hickman first. He never even bothered to contact his department head with news of the find.”
“Maybe Hickman and Ackerman put that together,” Halpert said, “so Ackerman could be sure he grabbed the glory if anything was found—not his boss at the university.”
“That doesn’t explain how Hickman could be sure Ackerman would even find something,” Hanley said, “or the chance that it would turn out to be a meteorite that was composed of iridium.”
“Maybe Hickman’s involvement was altruistic at the beginning,” Halpert said slowly. “Ackerman makes his pitch and Hickman has an interest in Eric the Red so he decides to fund the expedition. Then, when the meteorite is discovered, he sees some opportunity.”
“We don’t even know Hickman is involved,” Hanley said, “but if he is, what opportunity could make a rich man kill and risk all he has?”
“It’s always one of two things,” Halpert said, “love or money.”
THE OUTLINE OF the Faeroe Islands was just coming into view through the haze when Hanley reached Cabrillo in the helicopter and explained what Halpert had discovered.
“Damn,” said Cabrillo, “that’s a twist out of left field. What are your thoughts?”
“I say we go with it,” Hanley told him.
The islands started growing in size in the windshield.
“Has Dick arrived in London?” Cabrillo asked.
“I just spoke to him a few minutes ago,” Hanley said. “The jet was being refueled, then he was going to a hotel in London to wait for our call.”
“And the Challenger is standing by in Aberdeen?”
“On the ground,” Hanley said, “fueled and waiting.”
“Then call Truitt and his crew and tell them we need to have them fly to Las Vegas to see what they can find out about Hickman.”
“Great minds think alike,” Hanley said.
Through the windshield of the helicopter, the port was becoming defined as Cabrillo disconnected and turned to Adams. “Let’s get on the ground, old buddy.”
Adams nodded and started his descent.
THE FREE ENTERPRISE was just outside the breakwater as she slowed and stopped. A small open-deck fishing boat powered by a pair of 250-horsepower outboard motors pulled alongside. Pulling up next to the stairs that led to water level, the captain of the fishing boat slowed to a crawl, and one of his crew snagged the box from one of the Free Enterprise’s deckhands. The crewman slid the box into a fish hold as the captain steered away from the larger vessel and hit the gas.
Bouncing over the rough seas, the captain of the fishing boat steered his way into a small cove. The crewman climbed off the fishing boat and walked over to a road where a red van from a local package delivery service was waiting. Ten minutes later, the van had delivered the box to the airport.
There it sat awaiting transfer to a plane that was, at that instant, only a few miles away.
ADAMS TOPPED OFF both tanks and ran through his checklist. When that was finished he made notes in the log book. The helicopter had run fine on the trip in from the Oregon, so there was little to write—just flight times, weather conditions and a note of a tiny vibration. Adams was finishing just as Cabrillo drove up next to the helicopter in a tiny rental car. He pulled up next to Adams and rolled down the window.
“Hey, boss,” Adams said, “did you get half off on the rental car?”
“It’s called a Smart Car,” Cabrillo said, brushing off the joke. “This was all they had—it was either this or walk. Now bring the binoculars and locator and climb inside.”
From under the helicopter’s seat Adams retrieved a pair of binoculars and the metal box that read the signals from the bugs sprinkled on the meteorite. Then he stepped over to the Smart Car and climbed into the passenger seat. The binoculars went on the floor. The metal box he kept on his lap. As Cabrillo pulled away, Adams began to tune in the signal from the bugs.
“The box says that the object is very close,” Adams said.
Cabrillo crested a hill near the airport—the port was directly
below.
In the other lane a red van approached, and the driver was flashing his headlights. Cabrillo realized he’d been driving on the right side of the road American-style, and he swerved over to the proper lane.
“Boss,” Adams said, “we’re right on it.”
Cabrillo glanced over as the van passed—the driver gave a friendly wag of his finger at him for his poor driving, then continued on in the direction of the airport. Cabrillo glanced down the hill at a large ship just about to dock.
“There,” he said, pointing. “That must be the vessel.”
The vessel had the lines of a private yacht, but it was as black as a stealth bomber. Cabrillo could easily see the deckhands standing by with lines as the captain moved the ship over to the pier with the thrusters.
“The signal is fading,” Adams said.
Cabrillo pulled over to the side of the road and watched the yacht through the binoculars as it was secured in its slip. The side nearest him had a stairway leading from the rear deck to almost the waterline. Then a revelation struck him.
He reached for his portable telephone and speed dialed the Oregon.
He put his hand over the mouthpiece while Hanley answered, and spoke to Adams.
“They made a switch at sea,” he said quickly. “I’m going to drop you back at the helicopter and then follow the signal.”
“Call Washington and ask them to have the Danish authorities impound the vessel that just docked.”
After Hanley got his orders, Cabrillo switched the telephone off, then turned the steering wheel to the locks and hit the gas. The Smart Car roared around in a U-turn and Cabrillo headed back up the road. Entering the airport grounds again, he pulled alongside the Robinson. Adams quickly climbed out, leaving the locator on the passenger seat.
“Get her airborne, George,” Cabrillo shouted. “I’ll call you.”
Then he hit the gas again and began following the signal.
JAMES BENNETT HAD learned to fly in the U.S. Army but he had never flown a helicopter. His rating was pilot fixed-wing. Because the U.S. Air Force guarded their domain carefully, he was one of the few pilots in the army with the rating. What few fixed-wing planes the army did have were used for observation, forward spotting, and a dozen or so corporate-type planes that were used to ferry generals around.
Bennett had flown Cessna observation planes while still on active duty, so the Cessna 206 model he was flying now was old hat. Bennett had been cruising the tired old prop plane at a hundred miles an hour on the flight north. Now he slowed to enter the pattern and glanced out the side window at the runway. The runway was short and ended at a rocky cliff, but that was okay. Bennett had landed on strips hacked out of jungles, tiny strips on the sides of mountains in Southeast Asia, and once in a farmer’s field back home in Arkansas when he’d lost his engine.
Compared to those, the airport at Faeroe Islands was a piece of cake.
Bennett completed his circuit and lined up for landing. Drifting down in a light wind, he ruddered the Cessna straight at the last second. The Cessna touched down with only a light chirp from the tires. Bennett slowed the plane into a fast taxi as he stared at the directions that were written on a sheet of paper on his clipboard.
Then he slowed some more and turned down a side road toward a cargo terminal.
IN THE SMART Car, Cabrillo had his foot to the floor. Driving the tiny vehicle was like piloting a go-cart after a pot of coffee and half a pack of No-Doz. The Smart Car bounced over the pavement and lurched from side to side. Cabrillo raced alongside the row of hangars and carefully watched the locator. A Cessna had just exited the runway and was taxiing along. Cabrillo stared at the plane’s tail, then stopped and pulled over to check the locator.
ADAMS HAD THE Robinson airborne three minutes after he was dropped off. They hadn’t even been on the ground long enough for the engine to cool off. Flying along the side of the airport, he notified the tower that he was doing an equipment test and then he started to make low lazy circles in the sky.
The only plane visible was a Cessna that had just landed. He watched it slow to a stop in front of a hangar. Then he watched as Cabrillo in the Smart Car edged closer.
A UNIFORMED ATTENDANT walked out to the Cessna and shouted over the noise of the running engine, “Are you here for the oil-field parts?”
Bennett yelled back, “Yes.”
The attendant nodded and raced back through the open hangar door. A moment later he returned with the box. Walking close to the hangar, he placed the box on the ground then shouted in the pilot’s window.
“Front or back?”
“In the front on the passenger seat,” Bennett shouted.
The attendant picked up the box and walked around the rear of the Cessna.
CABRILLO GLANCED AT the gauge again. The needle was maxed out, lying against the line marked ten. He glanced up from the gauge and through the windshield just as the attendant began walking around the rear of the plane with the box. It was the same box Cabrillo had seen for a split second in Greenland.
He hit the gas just as the attendant placed the box in the plane and closed the door.
The Cessna started to taxi away. The plane had a head start and was about to turn onto the runway when Cabrillo reached full speed. Cabrillo steered the Smart Car with his knees while he reached into a holster that hung down under his arm. With his right hand he removed a Smith & Wesson .50-caliber handgun. With his left he rolled down the driver’s window.
Turning on the side road, Bennett turned to line up on the runway. Glancing to the rear, he noticed the Smart Car racing after him. For a second he thought it might be the attendant chasing after him to flag him down for some reason. Then Bennett noticed a hand come out of the window with a nickel-plated revolver.
Bennett advanced the throttle and pulled onto the runway. Already cleared for takeoff, he took the Cessna up to safe rotation speed. It would be a close race.
Cabrillo followed the Cessna onto the runway and gave chase. The plane was accelerating hard, and it was obvious the pilot was not considering stopping. As soon as Cabrillo had the Smart Car cruising at fifty miles an hour, he set the cruise control and slid himself through the window until he was sitting on the windowsill.
Lining up his shots carefully, he began firing at the plane.
BENNETT HEARD AND felt a bullet impact on his left wing strut. That was followed by the report from more bullets being fired. Reaching proper takeoff speed, he rotated by pulling back on the yoke. Lifting into the air, Bennett waited until he was at three hundred feet of elevation before glancing back.
The Smart Car had stopped at the end of the runway.
And the man that had been driving the car was racing toward a helicopter that had just touched down. Bennett advanced the throttle to the stops as Cabrillo climbed into the passenger seat in the Robinson.
“Think you can catch him?” he shouted to Adams as he lifted off.
“It’ll be close,” Adams said.
26
JUST TO THE south of the Faeroe Islands a layer of clouds lay almost to the sea. The leading edge of a storm heading from south to north, the clouds had pelted the British Isles with rain and snow for the last two days. As soon as the Robinson R-44 entered the maelstrom, it was as if Adams and Cabrillo had stepped inside a maze.
One minute they would have a stretch of clear skies, the next they would enter another cloud bank and lose all sight of the Cessna and the water beneath them. Winds buffeted the helicopter, changing directions and velocity like a puck on an air hockey table. The coastline of Scotland was just over two hundred and eighty miles to the south. Inverness, the first city where they might refuel, another seventy.
With both of the fuel tanks filled, Adams and Cabrillo could make land—but only if the headwinds cooperated. The Robinson had a range without reserves of four hundred miles, tops. The Cessna 206 could do just over eight hundred miles. Bennett had not refueled the 206 in the Faeroe Islands—as soon as he saw
that Cabrillo was pursuing him, he had taken off as quickly as possible—so here both aircraft were evenly matched.
As for cruising speed, the ratings were equal at 130 miles per hour.
“There,” Cabrillo said, pointing through an opening in the cloud bank, “he’s a couple miles ahead.”
Adams nodded; he’d been watching the Cessna appear and disappear for the last ten minutes. “I doubt he sees us,” Adams said. “We’re below him, and far enough back that we’re out of his rear field of view.”
“He can still pick us up on his avoidance radar,” Cabrillo noted.
“I don’t think he has one,” Adams said. “That’s an old-model Cessna.”
“Can you speed up?”
“We’re running dead out, boss,” Adams said, pointing to the air speed indicator, “and so is he, I’d judge. I can’t climb to dive down and gain speed that way. I’d lose too much forward air speed in the climb—he’d pull ahead out of sight.”
Cabrillo considered this for a moment. “Then all we can do is follow along,” he said, “and call for help.”
“That’s it,” Adams said.
JAMES BENNETT FLEW along thinking he was alone in the sky. He was not familiar with the Robinson R-44’s cruising speed but he knew most of the smaller helicopters topped out at around a hundred miles an hour. By his estimates, by the time he reached Scotland, the helicopter—if it was still following—would be at least a half hour behind him. Bennett reached for his satellite telephone and placed a call.
“I picked up the package,” he said, “but I think I have a tail.”
“Are you sure?” the voice asked.
“Not positive,” Bennett answered, “but if I do, I think I can outrun him. The problem is, once I land, I’ll only have a half hour or so to make the transfer. Is that a problem?”
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